Lost In Translation
by Teobi
Summary: Sometimes the most unexpected people become friends. Gentle, non-shippy fic with a bit of Headhunter action!


_Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey,  
A kiddley divey doo. Wouldn't you?_

_If the words sound queer and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey,  
Sing "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy."_

_- American nonsense rhyme_

oOoOo

"_**HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYAYAAAAAAAA!**_"

The scary headhunter leapt out of the bushes in front of the startled castaways who were in the middle of a nice, quiet breakfast, screaming at the top of his scary headhunter lungs They had no idea that their island had been invaded yet again by bloodthirsty savages, and after dropping their forks and spilling pineapple juice all over the place, pushing their chairs back and in some cases (Gilligan) falling over backwards and accidentally kicking the Skipper in the chops, they gathered together in a huddle and confronted the headhunter like one solid mass, seven people suddenly turned into one big, hopefully scary person of their own.

_**"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYAYAAAAAAAA!"**_

The headhunter roared again, beating his war painted chest. He crept closer, his glittering eyes narrowed until you couldn't even see what colour they were. Black, no doubt. Black as the shrivelled heart of Satan himself. He approached the table, picked up a handful of seagull eggs in one fist and crammed them into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open while yolk dripped down his dark, savage chin. "Mmm," he mused, cocking an eyebrow as though he were Gaston the chef from the finest restaurant in France.

Mrs. Howell clung to her husband's shoulders. "REALLY," she uttered. "What dreadful manners."

"Those were my eggs!" said Ginger. "How dare that man touch my eggs without asking!"

Mary Ann looked at her friend and nodded. "If he touches my pie, I'll... I'll... OOH!"

"Quite right, girls," said Mrs. Howell. "Men are brutes and will make a mess of your pie and eggs before you know it!"

The headhunter gobbled down some pineapple chunks and stuffed a mango into his mouth, sucking the juicy flesh from the stone with loud slurping noises. The girls went strangely silent as they watched him. Ginger bit her lower lip and made a strange squeaking sound.

"What a pig," said Gilligan. The Skipper went to agree with him and then did a double take.

"Says the man who inhales coconut cream pies before Mary Ann has even put the platter on the table!" Jonas Grumby scoffed.

"Gee, thanks, Skipper!"

"What for?"

"Calling me a man!" Gilligan plastered a smug grin onto his face as he watched the headhunter eating his merry way around their bamboo table.

Mary Ann stifled a giggle. She was wedged between Gilligan and the Professor- not a bad place to be, even if they _were_ about as efficient at protecting them from headhunters as Thurston Howell III's teddy bear.

The headhunter finally had his fill of the castaways' breakfast. He dragged the back of his burly forearm across his mouth, belched loudly and grunted in satisfaction. Ginger gave another little squeak and dug her nails into the Skipper's meaty shoulder.

"Gadzooks," murmured Thurston Howell III. "He's coming this way!" The millionaire scooted backwards, but was unable to flee, or rather to walk very fast, seeing as he was trapped in the middle of a huddle of seven people who needed to stay together if they were to defeat the marauding headhunter and his savage ways.

The headhunter made his way slowly across the sand towards them. "Haaaaaaaawwwwaaaaayyayaaaa," he grunted, much quieter than his previous howling, but all the more menacing for it. His bristly eyebrows lowered over his glittering, beady eyes and his chin thrust out like a maddened orang utan. He was wearing an elaborate head piece and grass cuffs around his wrist and ankles, as well as a natty grass skirt clinging to his chunky loins. He had a savage smell that preceded him, earthy and primitive, a simple, yet cunning man born from the soil. His feet were dirty as he dragged them through the sand. He had bristly, muscular thighs which Ginger couldn't tear her eyes away from, no matter how hard she tried.

"Hawwaaaaaaaaayyyyaaa?" he muttered, and thrust a brutish arm towards them.

Mrs. Howell screamed. The Skipper took a small step forward and placed himself at the front of the group.

"Now you listen here. These are my people and if you hurt any of them, there'll be trouble!"

The headhunter blinked.

"We've been living on this island for nigh on four years," the Skipper continued, puffing up his chest as he confronted the headhunter. "We know how you people operate. You paint yourselves and scream a lot and that's just about it."

"They also cut people's heads off with big, sharp knives," muttered Mr. Howell. "Hence the name, 'headhunter.'"

"They're so savage! So beastly! So... oooh!" Ginger's breathy, Marilyn Monroe voice trailed off again as she writhed and bit her lip, watching the headhunter the way a leopard tracks a gazelle from the cover of tall grass.

The headhunter completely ignored the Skipper, and the lusty gaze of Ginger Grant. He kept moving forward with his arm thrust out, saying, "Haawwwwwaaaaaaaaayyaaa," over and over again.

Mrs. Howell was about to faint standing up when the Professor suddenly shouted out loud, startling the society lady back into consciousness. "Why, Skipper! I think I know what he means!"

"It better not be, 'death to castaways'," the Skipper mumbled.

The grinning Professor stepped forward next to the Skipper. "It's not! It's not death to anyone! Skipper, I believe he's actually speaking English!"

"_That_ gobbledygook?" exclaimed Mr. Howell.

"Why, certainly! Watch this!" Roy Hinkley disengaged himself from the group, despite the protests of the women, and stepped towards the headhunter with his right arm held out in a welcoming gesture. "How are you?" he said, smiling as genuinely as he could, aware that at any moment the native could whip out a knife and lop off his head.

The headhunter's head whipped round and he stared directly at the Professor. The penny dropped for both men and he beamed widely at the man of science, delighted that he'd finally been understood. He thrust out both arms, palms facing upwards in the classic gesture of friendship.

"Howaaarryyaaa!" he yelled, happily, modifying his pronunciation a little, in imitation of the Professor. "Howaarryaaa!"

The Professor turned to the group, his face a picture of glee. "He was just saying hello!"

"Boy if that's hello, I'd hate to hear 'I love you'!" said the Skipper, scratching under his hat where his clammy scalp had begun to itch.

"Or happy birthday, or Merry Christmas, or can I take your coat, or this is a swell party," said Gilligan, stopping only after a heavy scowl aimed in his direction from the Skipper.

"Indeed," smiled the Professor, who was now having both arms pumped up and down by the grateful headhunter until his voice shook as if he were driving a car over cobblestones. "All this time we thought he was emitting a war cry when all he wanted was say hello!"

The headhunter grinned at the castaways, displaying surprisingly white and healthy looking teeth. Ginger whimpered again, but this time Mary Ann dug her in the ribs with her elbow.

"Stop making those noises," the young woman said, irritably. "You sound like a cat in heat."

"In that case," purred Ginger, never taking her eyes away from the headhunter, "_miiaaaoowww_!"

Mary Ann rolled her eyes and gave up.

The headhunter pointed at the Skipper and smacked his own belly loudly with both hands. "Hemalikebigfoood," he chuckled. "Bigfood!"

"Did he just call me 'Bigfoot'?" the Skipper asked the Professor, grumpily.

"No, he said you're a man who likes big food," the Professor replied with a completely straight face, while Gilligan clamped his hands over his mouth to stop the giggles from bursting out.

"Well that's just swell," the Skipper grumbled. "He says hello and then starts insulting us!"

"Just like Mr. Wiley did," said Gilligan. "Maybe Mr. Wiley went to their island too!"

The headhunter's eyes travelled slowly over the group, scrutinising each castaway in turn.

"Byooodifuladeee," he said, appreciatively.

"'Beautiful lady'," the Professor translated, with one eyebrow raised.

Ginger put her hand to her face and simpered. "I didn't think you'd noticed," she giggled whilst jiggling her hips in a perfect display of false modesty.

The headhunter completely ignored her and walked up to Mrs. Howell. "Byoodifuladeee," he grunted, reaching out to finger a lock of her silvery curls.

"Oh! Well, I... oh, how...! Goodness, Thurston, did you hear that?" Mrs. Howell went bright red and flustered like a young girl attending her first Debutante's Ball. "This must be what they mean by 'the noble savage'!" She offered the headhunter her gloved hand, and he lifted it to his nose and sniffed it.

After bestowing another toothy smile on Mrs. Howell, a smile that was both charming and frightening at the same time, the headhunter looked at Mary Ann. He smiled even more widely and made rocking motions with his arms. "Cudeycudeycudeycudey," he laughed. "Cudeycudeycudeycudey!"

Mary Ann looked at the Professor. "I hope he's not saying he wants me to have his baby."

The Professor looked shocked, then he laughed. "Don't worry, Mary Ann, he's not about to drag you off to his cave. He thinks you _are_ a baby! He's saying 'cutie'!"

Mary Ann's expression softened immediately. She melted the headhunter's heart with a beautiful and completely non-threatening doe eyed smile. "Thank you," she said. "That's so sweet. May I say you aren't so bad yourself? I mean, for a headhunter, that is."

The headhunter nodded at Mary Ann like a kindly grandfather, even though he wasn't old enough. Then he looked at Ginger. This was the first time he had actually looked at Ginger, and she quivered under his intense gaze.

"Be gentle with me," she whimpered.

The headhunter narrowed his eyes, raised both hands and curled his fingers over. "Rrrrrraaaaaoooaoorrrr," he growled, then licked his lips, causing Ginger to almost faint.

"Oh, my, this is too much even for me!" she burbled.

"I find_ that_ hard to believe," uttered Mrs. Howell, so quietly that only her husband heard her.

"Rrrraaaaaoooarrrr," the headhunter snarled, scratching his 'claws' through the air. "Roooaoaaarrrr!"

The Professor gulped and wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead. "I hope no one expects me to translate _that_," he murmured.

Gilligan raised his hand. "I do," he said, meekly.

Ginger batted her eyelashes at the headhunter and spoke to Gilligan without looking at him. "I'll translate it for you when you're older," she purred, her voice lilting seductively.

"I guess he thinks he's a lion," Gilligan shrugged. "Maybe Leo went to their island, too."

"Yes, that's right, Gilligan, he thinks he's a lion. A big... strong... _ravenous_ lion. And I'm just an itty bitty helpless little kitty."

"Ittybittykitty," the headhunter agreed, staring at Ginger like a hungry wild animal.

Ginger cooed with delight and ramped up the flirting until the other castaways almost died of embarrassment and the Professor had to restrain the headhunter by pulling him away from the group by his muscular and very bare shoulders.

The headhunter looked at Thurston Howell III. "Huh," he snorted, dismissively. He then started walking around with his nose right up in the air. "Lawdydawdydawdydaw."

"Egads," said Mr. Howell. "That's a perfect impersonation of Lovey's mother!"

"Thurston! _Really_," sniffed Mrs. Howell, pretending to be shocked.

Finally, the headhunter stepped towards Gilligan. The young sailor shrank back and hid behind the Skipper.

The headhunter regarded Gilligan for a moment and then threw his head back and laughed. He laughed so loudly and heartily that all the castaways began to titter and giggle nervously, unsure what the joke was, but wanting to be involved in the fun. Gilligan laughed nervously, clutching the Skipper's shirt, bruising Skipper's flesh with the surprising strength of his grip.

"Whooopsydoo, whooopsydoo," the native laughed. He pretended to trip over something, stumbled a few feet while hollering, and then threw himself on the ground in a spectacular pratfall. He lay on his back kicking his legs and laughing. "Skkeeepppaarrr!"

The Professor regarded Gilligan's sulky pout. "Need a translation?"

"I'm guessing it's not, 'there goes the hero of the group'," Gilligan muttered.

Mary Ann giggled quietly and linked both of her arms through one of Gilligan's. "You're _my_ hero," she smiled up at him.

"Aw, thanks Mary Ann," the first mate grinned, cheering up immediately.

The headhunter picked himself up, dusted himself down, and then immediately stumbled around again before falling down for absolutely no reason. "Skkkkkeeeeeepppaaaaaaar," he laughed, clutching his sides as he lay in the dirt, greatly amused by his own behaviour.

Ginger was not at all impressed with the headhunter's antics. "Suddenly he doesn't seem like such an interesting prospect," she murmured.

Mary Ann was shocked. "Don't tell me you were _actually considering_ it, Ginger!"

"Well, neither of us are getting any younger, Mary Ann," said Ginger, in that pseudo innocent way that women use when they're being bitchy.

Mary Ann humphed, and if her arms hadn't been linked through Gilligan's she would have folded them indignantly. "Speak for yourself," she muttered, brusquely.

The headhunter got to his feet and his guffaws of laughter petered out with a happy sigh. He turned to the Professor and slapped the man of science on the back, nearly knocking all the air out of his lungs. The Professor smiled lopsidedly and the two of them began to talk.

"Hey, wait a minute," said the Skipper, fixing the Professor with a pointed stare. "We've all heard what he thinks of _us_. How about what he thinks of _you_?"

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary," the Professor began.

"Oh, I think that _is_ necessary," replied the Skipper, with a disarming grin. "Go on, Professor. Ask him. Or I will!"

Roy Hinkley rolled his eyes and gave a resigned sigh. He patted the headhunter on the shoulder and then pointed to himself. The headhunter frowned in confusion and then brightened as he realised what the Professor meant.

"Ah!" he grinned, nodding. He planted his feet apart and adopted a stiff backed pose. He stroked his chin and mimed being lost in thought. He tutted and nodded as if he were forming a very important opinion. "Meeesmart, meeesmart. Bigbrain." He kept nodding studiously. "Bigbrain, biiiiiiigbrain."

Mary Ann and Ginger snickered and tugged on each other's clothing, nudging each other to stop giggling.

"Well, it's nice to know _someone_ appreciates my intelligence," the Professor said, jokingly.

After all his impressions were over, the headhunter began chattering in earnest to the Professor, who seemed to understand almost all of his incoherent babbling.

"It seems that his tribe have been observing us for a while," the Professor told the castaways as the headhunter jabbered away, using his arms and an array of facial expressions to get his point across. "And contrary to our perception of them as bloodthirsty savages, they are actually quite benign. Perhaps a hundred years ago they were cannibal warriors, but these days their young men and women would rather head for the mainland and pursue an education. Left to their own devices, these people are quiet and peaceful. It's only when they encounter strangers that they feel compelled to don the war paint and frighten the enemy into submission." He listened intently to the headhunter for another few moments. "Michael says he personally hasn't cut off a head ever since he attended therapy sessions on Bora Bora where he learned to deal with his addiction."

"His addiction?" asked the Skipper.

"To cutting off heads," said the Professor.

The Skipper gulped loudly.

"Wait a minute," said Mr. Howell. "Did you say 'Michael'? Who in the world is _Michael_?"

"He is," said the Professor, indicating the headhunter, who stood beaming proudly at all of the castaways. "He chose the name Michael for himself after his favourite painter, the Renaissance artist Michelangelo. Except that no one in his tribe could pronounce Michaelangelo so he was forced to cut it down to Michael."

"He's fond of cutting things, isn't he," mused Mr. Howell.

"Yes, but not heads," smiled the Professor. "As for you, Gilligan. The people who come here to quietly observe us go home with tales of your mishaps and adventures to tell their children. It would appear you are quite the celebrity on their island. Their children are always eager for tales of Gilligan. There are even newborn babies being named Gilligan."

Gilligan looked like someone who had just been given everything he wanted, and more, for Christmas. "Even the girls?" he asked, astounded.

"Oh, Gilligan! You're famous!" laughed Mary Ann, hugging her excited friend.

"I'm not at all sure I like the idea of strange men lurking in the bushes watching us as we go about our business," said Mrs. Howell, as she peered sternly at Michael through her lorgnette.

"Me too," said Ginger, dreamily.

The Professor and Michael chatted again.

"He says they follow a strict code of ethics," the Professor told Mrs. Howell. "They don't do anything they wouldn't appreciate being done to them. They don't follow us anywhere they shouldn't. They don't peer through our windows at night. They don't take anything from the laundry line, no matter how much their tribeswomen ask. Small groups of two or three tribe members stay for one or two hours, merely observing how we interact. At first it was to determine whether we were dangerous or not, but they soon learned that we're about as threatening as... " he turned to Michael. The headhunter repeated something and then laughed. "As baby pygmy marmosets. Especially Gilligan."

The castaways were all finally convinced that their uninvited guest was friendly. They remarked that perhaps next time he should just walk pleasantly along the path and into the clearing instead of leaping out of the bushes, howling like a yeti. He agreed. He jabbered something that the Professor translated as, "the number of spiders, ants and beetles that crawl up my legs when I hide in the bushes is ridiculous." Michael whispered something and then cackled loudly and nudged the Professor in the ribs, making him cough. "Ahem," he spluttered. "That was a joke for the boys."

They invited Michael to stay for lunch, even though he'd already polished off their breakfast. He declined the invitation, saying that he needed to get back to his people to tell them of the castaways' hilarious reaction to his surprise visit.

"No more surprise visits!" ordered the Skipper.

Michael nodded, grinning. "Big food. No worry," he promised.

Gilligan ran to his hut and came back with a pile of comic books for the tribe's children. Michael was so delighted that it looked like he might start crying at any minute. "You good man," he smiled, accepting Gilligan's gifts. "We take care. Bring back."

"Naw, you can keep 'em," Gilligan said, blushing. "I've read 'em so many times I can see 'em in my sleep. Start a library for your kids."

Michael threw a meaty arm around Gilligan's shoulders and hugged him. "I name first born after you," he said. "Our tribe have many Gilligans!"

"God help them, they'll be extinct within three generations," muttered Mr. Howell, returning Gilligan's frosty glare with an epically smarmy grin.

They went with Michael to the lagoon and waved him off, and carried on waving until he had rounded the bend and was out of sight.

"Well, he wasn't so bad after all," Mary Ann sighed.

"Not bad? Mary Ann, he was a hunk," said Ginger.

"I didn't mean it like that," Mary Ann said in a scolding tone, but Ginger knew her friend was teasing her and so she just smiled and shot her a wink.

"I guess we learned a lesson today," said the Skipper. "Our enemies are not always who we think."

"Oh please, Captain," said Mr. Howell, rolling his eyes. "Next you'll be saying... "

"... 'a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet'," finished Lovey, gazing out across the lagoon at the rippling wake of Michael's canoe.

"Yes, what a wonderfully profound saying," said Mr. Howell, back pedalling like a pro. "I'm so glad you thought of it, darling!"

The castaways made their way back to the huts, chatting and joking among themselves, relieved that they would be keeping their heads for the foreseeable future. And Michael rowed his boat ashore on another uncharted island just a few short miles away, laughing as a raggedy band of children ran down the beach to greet him, hordes of them screaming with delight when they saw Gilligan's comic books, held aloft in both of Michael's hands like the spoils of a very gentle war.

"Haaawaaaaayyaaaa!" they chanted as they all leapt onto the canoe, dragging it out of the water so that they could grab at those colourful comic books. "Haaawaaayyyaaaa!"

end

**A/N: Another thing that influenced this story was 'Gladasya'. Gladasya Productions, who along with United Artists produced Gilligan's Island, was Phil Silvers shorthand for "Glad to see ya." Can't you just hear him slurring "gladasya!" around one of his huge cigars! **

**Thanks for reading! Arriverdoonchi!**


End file.
